


Setting Brian Free

by Eileen_Donovan (besame_bj)



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 18:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13506984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besame_bj/pseuds/Eileen_Donovan
Summary: SUMMARY:  A ten-year-old Brian gets some much-needed help.WORD COUNT:  3,022RATING: R for languageCHARACTERS: Brian Kinney, Justin Taylor.TIMEFRAME: Takes place both during the year when Brian is ten years old and in a timeframe unknown to anyone except, maybe, Justin.WARNING:This story involves child abuse and Jack Kinney is the abuser. If this might trigger you or in any way is a problem, it might be best to skip it!DISCLAIMERS: All characters and situations from Queer As Folk are the property of Russell T. Davies, CowLip Productions, Tony Jonas Productions, Showtime Networks Inc. and others. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.





	Setting Brian Free

**SETTING BRIAN FREE**

_Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief._  
C. S. Lewis

You stay at Michael’s house as long as you can, eating Debbie’s meatloaf without even complaining about the onions. She always puts in too many onions and you’ve often wondered how she can run a restaurant when her cooking’s so bad. But today? No, nothing, not a word. It’s the fifteenth, which means Pop got paid and you’ll do anything to avoid going home. Anything. So you eat the meatloaf, laughing at Debbie’s stupid jokes, and you listen when Michael tells you all about the latest comic-book adventures of Captain What’s-His-Name without making even one wisecrack. Later, you watch CHiPs with Mikey, making jokes about the tight pants those guys wear, and it all deteriorates, like it always does, so that you wrestle with him on the floor, tumbling over and over until you pin him. You always enjoy that. You’re not sure why, but you do, probably because you always beat him. 

Inevitably, though, your mother calls and says you have to come home. Just for a minute, the dread gripes you, hard, but you stomp on it with both feet and refuse to even admit it exists. Even so, you manage to draw out your stay a little longer, but when Debbie gives you that look, you know it’s time to go. You’re pretty sure she knows, so the expression that goes with that look, well, it makes your insides feel all jumbled like the Etch-A-Sketch when someone shakes it. You don’t like it, not at all and you can't look at her again, walking out the door with your head down after a mumbled good-bye.

At home, you endure your mother’s lecture about when you’re supposed to be home and how thoughtless you are when you don’t bother to call. She knows where you are and could fucking call Debbie’s house and ask if you could spend the night if she was concerned, which she’s not. You know that. Living with her ten years has taught you that much and more. She doesn’t give a shit about anything, especially you. You knew that when you were _three._

Although you could go upstairs to your room, lock the door, and hope for the best, you refuse to do it. Why, you’re not sure. It isn’t like you enjoy it when Jack beats on you and you’re sure not under any illusion that you can stop him … not yet. One day, that’ll be true, and you can’t wait, you play that day over and over again in your head, you long for that day to come. Still, right now, you’re ten and, yeah, you’re tall for your age, but not _that_ tall. Even though logic dictates that Pop will come home drunk, because he _always_ comes home drunk on payday and even though that means you’ll be his favorite target, still, you don’t leave or hide or look for a fucking gun. You won’t be a pussy like Mikey, whining and crying, making the other kids hit you more. Hell, no. Jack might hit you, but he’s the only one, the only fucking one.

Inevitably, your father staggers through the door, stumbling up the stairs, and, yeah, he finds something to bitch at you about. You forgot to take out the garbage, you should’ve come home earlier, you’re a big, fat, fucking loser and everyone in the whole entire world knows it. You listen as he hurls the words at you, each one like the blows that’ll eventually fall, and you give him the face that doesn’t care. The harder the words, the harder your expression becomes until, sooner or later, you have to tell him what an absolute piece of shit he is. You have to, because if you don’t, you’ll burst, you’ll blow up, you’ll cause such a huge explosion the house will be leveled … maybe even the neighborhood.

Dragging you up the stairs, you stumble twice, but manage to right yourself before he decides to start early. In your bedroom, Jack smacks you once, hard, and you crash down onto the hardwood floor, but you know he’s just getting warmed up. With a growl, he grabs you and pulls you up, screaming in your face so that his whiskey-soaked breath washes over you and makes you want to gag. You keep on answering him back, though, so he shakes you and hits you with his big hands, hard, then harder, knocking you down again and again. Still, you won’t shut up, you can’t shut up, you have to keep telling him that he’s the worst human being who ever existed, that he’s supposed to be a _father_ for fuck’s sake, but he behaves like a goddamn monster—worse than a monster because he’s _real!_

That’s when he takes off his belt and really lets you have it. He’s big and strong and outweighs you by many pounds, so each stroke cuts into you and you can’t help yourself, you scream and scream, the tears running down your cheeks as your father’s furious voice rings in your ears. Time stops, then, and you’re caught in a hot, sweaty blur of pain that’s terrifying and endless. That’s when you want to die. 

You seriously want to die.

Finally, Pop throws down the belt and spends another ten minutes lecturing you on what a piece of shit you are. You struggle to breathe, every nerve in your body reverberating with pain as you’re forced to stand before him and listen to his bullshit speech. Now, though, you’ve finally be vanquished. All the fight is gone and inside you're numb. Tears run down your face and you can’t stop them no matter how hard you try. All your brave words have disappeared and you’re reduced to a shaky “Yeah,” or “Okay” as the drunken lecture goes on. 

The great Brian Kinney? Nothing but a big, fat, blubbering baby.

After he leaves, you crawl into bed without finding your pajamas, the light off, your body pressed against the wall's cool embrace. You shake uncontrollably, consumed with the many horrible ways Jack should die and how you’ll execute each one. That you hate him is not even an issue; that you want him dead as natural to you as breathing. As you calm down, though, the painful throbbing turns to a dull ache, and when that happens, reality assaults you. You won’t kill your father, will you? No. You won’t kill him and the truth is, you’ll probably end up being just like him: a big, fat, fucking loser. You’ll marry some creep of a woman and have kids who you’ll beat and the whole fucking charade will go on and on. Your mom has told you that, often, and at this point, it’s sounding more and more like the truth. It’s inevitable—that’s what your mother has said. 

Inevitable.

The despair enfolds you, a familiar companion as you drift off in its ungentle embrace. You’ll never amount to anything. Pop is right and it’s time you acknowledge that. _You’ll never amount to anything. You’ll never amount to anything. You’ll never amount—_

At some point, you get up and open the door. 

That’s when you step into the Dream.

It’s always a little disorienting when you do that and you always stand there for a minute staring at everything. Gradually, though, you remember. Yes, you’ve been here before, many times. It’s a familiar dream, although it’s one you never take back with you into the real world, the one that’s filled with so much pain and anger. That one’s real though … or is this one? You always think about _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ where the children go into another world, one called Narnia, one that’s every bit as real as their old world outside the wardrobe. Maybe this is the same way? You want so much for that to be true, but you don’t admit it to yourself because you know that would be stupid.

Right now, you're standing at a crossroads, a flagstone path in colors of black, gray, and purple. Several of the paths wind through different areas of what you can only think of as a big park. There’s trees and flowers and bushes, all the stuff you’d see in a park, although no swings, slides, or jungle gyms. That’s baby stuff anyway and you never miss it when you’re here. There’s a big waterfall at one end of the area and you can hear it from where you’re standing, a faint roar that reminds you of a train in the distance. There’s a stream that’s much closer and its gentle gurgling soothes you as you take your first grateful breath of fresh air. The sky overhead is a bright blue with puffs of white clouds, the flowers are deep reds, blues, yellows, purples, pinks—every color possible. It’s beautiful, all of it, a place filled with all the things you wish were in your life, the exact opposite of the world you’ve come from. 

“Hi, Brian.”

You turn, surprised, but not surprised to see Justin standing there. He’s this older guy who’s always part of the dream. “Hi.” Even though you’re usually shy around him whenever you first see him, you know that won’t last, because he’s so nice. He’s maybe Jack’s age, although you’re not sure about that since you don’t know much about how to judge an adult’s age. But whatever his age, he’s nothing like you father. For one thing, he’s slim, good-looking, and blond, although not very tall, but that’s okay because you’re not tall either. He’s wearing jeans and a sheer white shirt with a tee shirt underneath. You’re vaguely aware that he’s somehow from the future and you’ve always wondered why he’s not wearing some cool silver suit, but maybe things aren’t like _Star Wars_ after all.

“I’ve got some lemonade over here,” Justin says just then and points to the circular patio area just down the path where there’s a table and chairs.

“Okay.”

The pitcher filled with lemonade is curvy and pink—kind of girly—but that’s okay. You sit in a comfortable cushioned chair across from Justin and take the cold glass—also pink—that he gives you. “Here you go,” Justin says and pushes across a plate filled with chocolate chip cookies. He plucks one up and munches on it. “So how’re you doing?”

All kinds of drawing and painting stuff are on the far side of the table: pads of paper, pencils, those drawing crayons, charcoal. Plus, there’s an easel set up with a canvas on it and a palette filled with bright paints. Your favorite, though, is the super-amazing space-age camera that Justin always lets you fool around with. It takes regular pictures and also 3-D ones, just like in the movies. Holographs—that’s what Justin calls them. “I-I had another fight with my father,” you say, then take a cookie and stuff it into your mouth. The cookies are always so much better than anything your mother or Debbie ever made, but no matter how many you eat, you never get sick.

Justin looks sad. He’s kind of like that guy in _M*A*S*H_ , very touchy-feely and sympathetic, but in a nice way, so you don’t mind. Now he shakes his head. “He’s had a miserable life, but he shouldn’t take it out on you.”

You wonder how he knows so much about your asshole father, but it must be more of the time-travel stuff. You asked Justin once if he was like that guy in _The Time Machine,_ but he just laughed and said no machines were involved, which is too bad because you'd love to see such a thing. “I wish I could kill him,” you say just then, always surprised by how honest you are with this man. It’s a silly thing to say right now, because all the bad stuff you suffered thanks to Pop has disappeared in this world. You don’t hurt, you’re not afraid, you’re not even angry. “I always say that.” You take another cookie, sweet chocolate and butter melting in your mouth as you eat it, a little slower this time.

Justin pushes his own glass of lemonade aside and takes up a piece of charcoal and a large pad to sketch you. “You have a perfect right to say that. He was-is a very hard man and he treats you like shit.”

You wish that Justin would level with you and tell you what this is all about. After all, you’re not some little kid, you’re _ten_ and you know a lot of complex and mysterious things like how babies are made and how long it'd take to get to Mars. You’ve asked him before, of course, but he always tells you there are certain things you can’t know. And, of course, that's for your own good. Isn't it always? "It's always the same thing with him," you say now, picking at the chocolate chips in another cookie. "He's drunk and he wants to fight so he can hit me."

"True."

"Debbie says I shouldn't give him the satisfaction, that I should just ignore him."

"Debbie has a good heart, but that's something that's hard for an adult to do much less a child."

You hate that he calls you a child even though it's true. "He always picks on me. Never on Claire."

"You're the scapegoat."

"It's not fair."

"No, it's not. It totally sucks."

"Was your father that way with you? Is that why you understand?"

Justin pauses in his drawing to look across at you and the blue in his eyes seems darker. "No, my dad was great, really great."

The way he says it makes you think there's more to the story than he's telling, but you don't want to be an obnoxious kid so you keep your peace. "So why do you do it?" you ask instead.

"Do what?"

"This. Come here with cookies and everything to talk to me. It doesn't really change anything."

Justin goes back to his drawing. "You're right. You still have to go back to your life and live with that bastard for another eight years."

"Eight? I'm leaving at eighteen?"

"Isn't that usually when someone goes to college?"

He's being evasive again and you find it frustrating, but he's so nice, you can't be mad at him. "I'm not smart enough for college."

"Sure you are. You're actually _very_ smart and you'll do—you'd do very well in college."

"My dad says I'm dumb and I'll be lucky if I make it through high school."

For the first time, Justin looks angry."God, the things that he—" He stops himself, biting on his lower lip for a minute as angry sparks seem to fly from his eyes. "You're not dumb, Brian, okay? You're smart and you'll be great in school. Trust me on this."

Because Justin knows him in the future? Probably. That must mean he'll be pretty old when they meet, because if he was going to get older, Justin was too, right? Maybe he was a college professor and that's how he knew about the school stuff. Maybe he was a college professor who also had a big, bad time machine? So he came back to the year that he was ten to tell him all this great stuff so he wouldn't feel so bad? Was he just nice like that? Did he do it with all his students? Maybe that's how things worked in the future? "What college will I go to?" you ask, trying to be cagey.

"What college would you like to go to?"

"Well, I guess I could get into the one in the city, or maybe Penn State."

"Is that where you want to go?"

You shake your head and drink more lemonade. "I-I want to go to Carnegie Mellon."

Justin nods. "Then you will."

"Really?"

"Don't listen to your father, Brian. You're a smart kid and as soon as you're a little older, you're going to get yourself out of that home and into the world." Justin sits up a little taller. "Now, what would you like to do while you're here? I know you like the camera, so we can take pictures if you like. Or see a movie? Play ball over at the field? Read?"

That's when it all comes back to you. This isn't just some small park with a few paths and this table with food and stuff. There's more, lots more. A big area with a giant screen where you can watch any movie you want. And there's popcorn and candy while you do! Or you can go to that shady alcove with a bunch of comfy chairs where there's any book you want to read … or have read to you. Or the ballpark where there's always a game just starting, a game with boys your age, boys who're nice, who just want to play ball and have fun. There’s even an arcade where you can play pinball or any cool electronic game you want. And you can do it as long as you want. There's no time limit and you can't get sick no matter how much candy you eat.

Best of all? 

Pop can't be here, ever.

It's _your_ place and it always will be. You can do what you want and, even better, _be_ yourself. You’re free, really free.

You smile a smile that stretches your face until it hurts. "Okay, how about … the camera. Can I use the camera?"

Justin slides it across the table. "It's all yours. Let's walk around, huh? You can take pictures as we go."

You grab the camera and fall in step next to him, the feel of the cool metal making you even happier than you already are. "This is fun," you say, stealing a peek at Justin as you do.

He nods, then pats your shoulder. "That's the idea, Brian. Your life needs some fun in it and that's what this is: the positive part that'll help make you the man you'll become."

Which sounds weird to you, but, oh, well, that's okay. Whatever.

Right now, being ten years old seems fine.

Just fine.


End file.
